


The Sea Refuses No River

by Rroselavy



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter can be a life-changing event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea Refuses No River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theskywasblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/gifts).



Nate Jackson eased the rental car into a dusty parking lot behind a ramshackle bait and tackle store, pulling the sleek Saab convertible in next to an ancient lime-green VW Camper festooned with Flower Power decals and carefully stopping the car well before a couple of old, beat-up bicycles that leaned against the exterior of the house opposite the shop. He cut the engine but left the radio on, listening until the last chords of "You're Nothing I Need," his latest hit single, faded out. He frowned as he removed the key from the ignition. Even after all the years he'd been recording and releasing hit after hit, it never failed to amaze him that people actually liked his songs. Not liked, _loved_ them--bought them by the millions. As far as he was concerned, what he'd just heard was but another mediocre tune with bland lyrics--certainly something he wouldn't bother listening to twice. But in reality, the song was yet another single faithfully devoured by a record-buying public, making him, his band and all the industry parasites that fed off of him even richer. At this point in his career, he could probably read a page from a phonebook and still go platinum.

The place he'd chosen to stop at was far off the beaten path, at the end of a thin ribbon of pot-holed macadam and at the water's edge. It was exactly what he'd been looking for--somewhere he could be anonymous. People who lived and worked in out-of-the way backwaters didn't expect to run into the world's most famous rock-star, so it was easy to pass himself off as some regular joe, creating a past on the fly out of thin air. It was slightly amusing at times, particularly when he was in a fanciful mood. He would tell the most outlandish stories he could think up, relating them with a straight face and leaving people scratching their heads as they tried to figure out if he was serious.

Just as often, he found his fame could be precisely employed in a mind-numbing array of special treatment--from sexual favors to bottomless drinks of top-shelf liquor in the hottest clubs. But he'd become bored of the sycophants and groupies years ago; had had his required bout of substance abuse and found that too, lacking; and had even dabbled in darker realms of the sadomasochistic subculture for a while, taking his ennui out on more-than-willing participants. Even that had failed to blunt the gnawing emptiness that pervaded every facet of his life.

At the pinnacle of a career that most guys would give their left testicle for, Nate was ready to walk away from it all, to disappear--to reinvent himself, or not--because fading away into the ether seemed to be an equally attractive alternative. It wasn't as if anyone would truly miss him, he'd never given anyone reason to. He'd used both men and women as sex toys--gratifying his base needs and dispensing with every last one of them at the slightest hint of attachment. He barely treated his band better than servants, and the person who served as his manager and agent occupied a special place in Nate's hell, one that required mutely accepting verbal abuse, negotiating bizarre riders (all road personnel may never look Mr. Jackson in the eye; there may be no brown M&amp;Ms served backstage; all women working on staff must remove bras; all men may not wear undershorts) that arbitrarily changed from night to night, and serving as a general-purpose gofer and lap-dog.

The drive from Miami south on the Overland Highway had been long, if uneventful, the miles eaten away smoothly as he traversed the flat islands and the series of bridges that linked the Florida Keys to the mainland. It felt good to step out of the car, even though Nate's pale linen suit, crisp when he'd put it on earlier at his hotel, felt wilted from the heat and humidity, and his black cotton t-shirt underneath the jacket clung to his body like a second skin. In retrospect, he probably should have chosen the fabric seats over leather, especially since he'd had the romantic notion of driving the highway with the top down. He stretched and twisted his spine to the left and then to the right. A few vertebrae crackled pleasantly, relieving some of the stiffness that had settled in from the drive, executed the morning after the last concert of a whirlwind tour that had seen him playing shows almost every night for the past six weeks. He stooped to check himself out in the side view mirror. The reflection that greeted him--a sallow face of adequate, if average handsomeness, shielded behind rimless prescription lenses darkened under the sun--was framed by a mess of black hair, courtesy of sixty-five mile-per-hour winds that had buffeted him before he'd hit Key West proper and had raised the convertible's roof.

He combed his hands through his hair, reasonably taming it. The tinnitus in his ears rang loudly in the silent afternoon as he had a look around at the scenery. Beyond the edge of the parking lot and through a stand of tall palm trees that doubled as a barrier to keep vehicles off the beach stretched a deserted beach of bone-white sand, which sloped gently to meet brilliant turquoise waters. Behind the house, a pier jutted into the water. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the tangy sea air; the relaxed atmosphere that seemed to infuse the air was a tangible presence that surrounded him.

He walked toward the building that had initially grabbed his attention--a bar-restaurant named A Dog's Life, according to a hand-lettered sign planted among a scrubby garden of beach grass and poinsettias in bloom. Gravel crunched under his loafers with a hollow sound as he drew closer. It looked to be an old Victorian house with a vaguely Caribbean feel, its clapboard sidings painted canary yellow with teal, hot pink and violet gingerbread detailing. At the near end of the building was a wooden staircase that led to the lower level of a two-story wrap-around veranda. Clay pots of red-flowered geraniums sat on each step next to the railing. If it hadn't been for a faded beach towel carelessly hung over the rail of the upper balcony, Nate would've believed he'd stepped back in time. Bringing his arms over his head and further loosening tense muscles, he smiled at the thought of prim ladies in bustles strolling by beneath parasols and young lads in knickers playing marbles or pitching stones against the wall of the building.

Small tables--none occupied--dotted the porch, the center of their slate tops decorated with double old-fashioned glasses filled with many differently-colored chalk sticks and hurricane lanterns mosaicked in greens and blues. Some of the tabletops still had damp spots on them from where they'd recently been wiped clean. His shoes echoed on the plank floor as he made his way to the entrance, where a hand-painted sign fashioned from an old surfboard split in half lengthwise reiterated the name of the establishment, embellishing it with Café. Glancing down, he noticed that large-ish paw-prints had been faintly stenciled on the floorboards of the veranda. The overall feeling of the place, from the outside, was one of whimsical charm, and he was now positive that despite the casual cut of his suit, he was over-dressed.

Nate leveled his gaze to the glass and wood door in front of him. The sign read 'Open' and the hours listed on a small card agreed, but when he pulled the wooden screen door open and tried the knob to the inside door, his hand was met with resistance.

He frowned. It figured that he'd finally settled on someplace where he had a remote chance of remaining anonymous while quietly and purposefully getting plastered, and it was closed--in spite of the sign saying otherwise. All in all, it was rather irritating. He rapped on the glass, though he didn't know why--he wasn't about to step foot into an empty establishment. He never _opened_ places; he was known as a late-night partier, more prone to _closing_ them--and well after hours, at that.

When it became obvious that the restaurant was indeed closed, he stepped away from the door and let go of the screen. It slammed shut with a _bang!_ courtesy of the tension spring attached to it.

He wasn't looking forward to driving around the small island looking for another watering hole. Venturing farther in would bring him back into the Old City, which was crawling with tourists. The streets and sidewalks of the historic center had been clogged with overweight, middle-aged tourists wearing stupid souvenir t-shirts skimming door-to-door between saltwater taffy and homemade fudge confectioners and cheap gift shops--their windows filled with gag ashtrays and shot glasses--all probably made in China. He wondered if the factory laborers employed to decorate toilet-shaped ashtrays with pearls such as 'your butt here' had any sense of irony. It didn't take too much time for Nate's skin to crawl from the crass capitalism and realize that any charm that had once imbued the heart of Key West had long ago been sucked away in a swirl of rampant consumerism, probably along with Hemingway. And so he'd driven around the island, searching for something he was beginning to think didn't exist outside the edges of his mind. And then he'd turned down a quiet lane, which had ended in this dusty parking lot nestled against the water.

Nate took the stairs two at a time, shaking geraniums in their pots, and was halfway to the Saab when he heard the screen door bang again and the sound of footsteps hurriedly pounding along the porch.

"Hey mister, come back! We're open!"

Nate turned around to see a spiky head of brown hair leaning around one of the column supports of the veranda.

"Really!" the kid implored. Stopped in his tracks, Nate settled a hand on his hip. The place had looked inviting enough, and the name on its own was intriguing.

"I just forgot to unlock the door," the kid added sheepishly, stepping down to the level of the parking lot. He was wearing an orange t-shirt and blue jeans over which was tied a black half-apron. Nate heard the screen door bang again, and then a moment later someone peered down from the open archway at the top of the steps.

"Hey, Monkey! What gives?"

"All right already! I'm coming! I'm coming! That guy thought we were closed." A tanned arm arced in Nate's general direction. "I was lettin' him know we weren't. I mean, we aren't."

His partner was wearing a bandana around his forehead to contain a mass of lanky hair--the reddest color Nate had ever seen--and a white tank shirt. He cast an appraising glance in Nate's direction. And stared just a little longer than what would be considered polite. Behind his shades, Nate gritted his teeth. He'd been recognized.

"Yeah, yeah. If you didn't have a sieve for a brain, you wouldn'ta had to," the redhead remarked, still staring. "He's right, though, we're open for business. But not for dinner, yet, the specials are still on their way in." He offered Nate a dazzling grin of brilliant, even white teeth. "I'll make sure Dimwit leaves the door unlocked."

"Dammit!"

Nate caught a flash of golden eyes before the 'dimwit' wheeled.

"Shut it, you stupid cockroach!" He launched himself up the steps and was nearly on top of the redhead before he reacted. They disappeared in tandem to laughter and protests of 'I'm not a monkey, you peanut-head' and 'jerkwad,' the screen-door banging shut once again.

Nate stood in the glaring sun while the quiet settled once again, weighing his options for a few seconds. He could feel perspiration prickling his skin underneath the layers of clothing. There hadn't been anything else remotely interesting along his drive, and chances were, nowhere he'd want to be that would be serving alcohol; it was early yet, and very quiet. The tipping point was that he'd already escaped the Old City and its tourist traps and, if Red had recognized him, he wasn't letting on. Sometimes, Nate knew, that was the best he could hope for.

He walked back toward the café, this time more purposefully. True to the kid's word, the door was now wide open behind the screen. Nate stepped into the cool, dark interior of the café and waited to be recognized again. The kid who'd first spotted him had his back turned to him and was cleaning off a huge slate blackboard affixed to the wall. Red was wiping down the wooden bar along the opposite wall. In the space between them were a few more slate-topped tables, each one surrounded by four wicker-and-wrought-iron chairs. The place had that faint smell of stale beer that clings to all bars, but also the warm scent of bread being baked in the kitchen as the restaurant was being prepared for the evening sitting. His stomach growled, reminding Nate it had been nearly a day since he'd last eaten. Road living wasn't conducive to good eating habits and, strange riders aside, Nate had little use for food before a show--he was usually too tightly wired to have much more than the ghost of an appetite before performing. After the show, the last thing he'd wanted to do was hang around with the band. The forced arrangement of being on the road with them had ground his nerves raw.

"Hey, Rembrandt? Where is Princess Super-Star? I can't believe the things you do for that bony piece of ass," Red remarked to the kid.

"Heh. You should say that to his face. His 'bony ass' could kick you from here to Havana an' back again. 'Sides, I like setting up the menu."

"Yeeaaah, riiight. I see how he's got you pussy-whipped."

"Stuff it, ass wipe!"

"While he's busy getting his beauty rest, maybe it'll improve his pissy attitude."

"Sam's not here, Shane. He went with Cy to pick up supplies," a voice intoned coolly from further inside the establishment.

Nate glanced between the two fellows he'd met, catching the brunet sticking his tongue out at the redhead--Shane--who promptly flipped the kid the bird.

"Fat chance, pervert! You ain't my type."

Shane snorted, but before he could fire off a proper comeback, he was brought up short.

"And we have a customer that you're both too busy insulting each other to take care of properly." The voice was louder now, and Nate glanced in the direction from which it came to see the owner. A lanky young man--another brunet, dressed in kitchen whites--leaned casually against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.

There was defensive sputtering from both quarters and some finger-pointing, all of it rather amusing to Nate as he scanned the place. The interior of the old house had been gutted and the walls removed, leaving posts supporting the ceiling. Opposite the entrance, across the dining room, was a hallway that probably led to restrooms and the kitchen. At the end of that hall was another screen door; beyond it he could see part of a deck overlooking the Gulf. The vibe of the place, despite the bickering, was laid-back and comfortable--a place he could quietly drink himself into oblivion before sleeping it off in the car. The walls around the room were washed in a soft ochre overlaid with orange; the mottled colors gave the room a warm, soothing feel. Large canvases of sun-drenched land- and seascapes, the colors slightly brighter than what one would expect in nature, decorated the walls. They all seemed the work of the same artist, a G--S--, if he went by what he could make out of the signature on the nearest one. Tiki lights and other colorfully illuminated strings festooned the column supports and garlanded several surfboards, which hung down about a foot, parallel to the ceiling.

On a near wall, a collection of framed photographs of surfers had been hung, most of them featuring the same blond in various locales from all over the world. They were all recent shots, as the dates and locations inscribed in the bottom margins attested. He must have been a surfing celebrity, or something. An image set off from the rest caught Nate's eye; it was a vaguely familiar shot of a surfer effortlessly skimming along the slant of a huge wave, a long braid of sandy hair trailing his crouched and tense body, providing a perfect balance. It was an old print--the color in the picture had faded, and the photo paper was yellowed with age.

He knew that image. The familiarity washed over him, and he remembered the poster of that very same picture, which had decorated his boyhood bedroom for years. The surfer had been an iconic image then, and many a Saturday afternoon Nate had spent inside, his eyes glued to the TV, watching _ABC's Wide World of Sports_, just to get a glimpse of the man in surfing competitions. He couldn't remember man's name--hadn't even thought of him for years--but as Nate continued to regard the photo, he did remember how much he'd idolized the guy, until one day he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.

He wondered what the old surfer-dude was up to, if he even was alive. Nate stretched his arm out, and his index finger traced over the tiny figure. Simon. Simon Keating had been his name. Nate hadn't even thought of him in years, but he represented something Nate had long ago abandoned--his idyllic childhood.

"Forgive my compatriots. They lack certain social graces." The voice, so close by, nearly had Nate jumping out of his skin.

"We're expecting our supplies for the week to come in, though. Would you care for a table on the deck?" Even though it was a question, Nate understood it to be more of a statement.

"Sure." At least, if he were seated outside, he could smoke at his leisure.

"And Shane will get you a complimentary pint of our house brew. That is, if you imbibe?"

"You make your own beer?" Nate asked as he followed the man toward the bright rectangle at the end of the hall.

"It's just a _micro_ microbrew. Not even enough to bottle and sell, but enough to offer at the bar. It changes from week to week. This week it's a coffee malt."

"That's killing two birds with one stone. Drunk and awake," Nate chuckled.

"If you're awake, you'll drink more, and probably eat more than you should, both considerably profitable for us."

Nate wasn't sure the other man was joking.

He opened the screen door and allowed Nate to pass through. "You have your pick of tables."

The deck was spacious, enclosed by a white-washed post and rail fence. Geraniums bloomed in vivid red from planters that topped the wide railing; miniature bamboo torches poked out of the soil above the flower heads. Off to Nate's right was the pier that he'd seen from his vantage point in the parking lot. It jutted out into the water a good twenty yards. Nate took a seat at a tall table underneath a thatched umbrella, his back to the restaurant. As he sat down, Shane materialized with a pint of chocolate-colored brew, the glass already sweating.

"Gordon, grab a coaster!" he called out. Seconds later the boy Nate had first met appeared with a slab of cork and a paper napkin in hand.

"Here ya go!" He dropped the coaster on the table and laid the napkin beside it, then put the sweaty glass on it. He went to the nearby bus-station and grabbed a napkin rolled into a cylinder as well as a glass filled with chalks. He set those down in front of Nate, then went back to the station and returned with a mosaic hurricane lamp. "Are ya waiting for someone?" he asked.

"No, I'll be dining alone this evening," Nate replied automatically.

"Huh."

"Is that a problem?"

"No!" he said quickly. "It just sounds like ya say that a lot."

Nate was about to tell the kid--Gordon--it was none of his fucking business, but he was right on the money. Nate often dined alone. He told himself it was because he loathed to spend money on meaningless dates, but more often than not, when he had dined with others, it had been for business, not pleasure.

"Maybe I like to dine alone," he leveled, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"Oh." It looked like the kid was going to say something more, but he simply ended it there and changed the subject. "I gotta go write up the blackboard, if you need anything just give a shout out. I'm Gordon," he smiled.

"Are you my server for the evening?" Nate asked, straight-faced.

"Um ... we don't do things like that, it's whoever's available when someone needs something." That didn't sound promising to Nate, but he had his drink, and he supposed at some point food would become available.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Okay," Gordon nodded eagerly as he turned toward the house. He seemed happy that Nate had accepted his explanation.

The beer was cool but not so cold as to obscure the complex flavor. It was a tasty crafting; the coffee gave it a nice bite, but it wasn't too bitter. He sat back in the wicker-backed stool and watched as a sleek sailboat traversed the water, edging closer to the shore.

Someone's cell phone went off, the ring tone sounding like an old rotary phone.

"Yes, we see you; we're waiting for you now."

"That the old man, Chuck?" Shane asked.

Chuck turned for a second as if to say something, then thought the better of it. "We should be ready to unload; it's getting late and I have to put the menu together. You know Cy can be ... unpredictable when it comes to shopping lists."

"Yeah, I do recollect the bushel of Brussels sprouts. You did get pretty creative serving 'em up, though."

"Ugh. I don't wanna ever see another one of those things again!" Gordon made a gagging sound.

"Heh. Something the bottomless pit can't stomach."

"Shut up, jerkwad!"

"Ahahaha. You know Cy doesn't like it when you two quarrel."

"He started it!"

"C'mon, man, it's all in good sport," Shane reasoned.

"You call that sport?" Chuck's disbelief was evident. "It's more akin to shooting fish in a barrel."

The boat had turned course and was now heading toward the dock. It was a beauty, cutting a sensual line in the water as it was gracefully maneuvered through the channel. As it neared, Nate could make out three figures: a shaggy-haired blond dressed only in cut-offs who traversed the narrow decks with cat-like grace while pulling in the sails; the captain, who steered the craft artfully toward the floating dock that nestled against the pier; and a large tan dog, standing proudly at the bow, ears flapping in the breeze. The three others had gone out onto the pier, picking up a hand-truck that had been parked close to the restaurant; their conversation was now out of earshot.

A spark of recognition ignited in Nate as he pondered which was Cy and which was Sam. The captain, he realized as he continued to stare, was Simon Keating. There was no doubt in Nate's mind--he caught sight of a long braid swinging in counterpoint to the boat's roll. 'Cy' was short for Simon. Nate felt a strange flutter in his belly, an odd sensation that he hadn't felt in years--excitement tinged with apprehension. He was about to meet someone he'd once idolized. Had once aspired to be like. Had gone out of his way as a kid to try to meet. He still felt the ghost of the bitter disappointment he'd felt back then. He'd had to take no less than three separate, sweltering buses on a blistering summer day to get to a mall bookstore where Simon was scheduled to be, only to find out he was a no-show; he'd had to cancel with little notice over a family emergency. That incident, though, had failed to dampen Nate's hero-worship.

There'd also been that one misspent summer when Nate had wheedled a surfboard out of his parents--earned it, they said--with his good grades. It hadn't taken him very long to come to the conclusion he didn't like being slapped around by the sea; he'd liked his surf instructor even less--a bear of a man who'd wasted no time telling Nate he was talent-less and lazy. That Keating had mastered surfing, made it seem so effortless and easy, had only served to further cement his stature in young Nate's mind. No one had ever come close to that--not the guitarists he'd emulated while learning to play, nor the songwriters he'd begun to pay attention to--whom he'd learned the craft from. They'd all become competitors to him, and weak ones at that.

Nate smiled. This was an _interesting_ development.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and fished out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. His smile faded when he realized he was on his last smoke. He shrugged it off and tossed the empty pack onto the table, sure he'd be able to bum a cigarette from someone at some point.

The dog jumped to dock before the boat was secured, and Gordon ran down the gangplank that slanted down to the dock. The younger of the two men--Sam, Nate decided--threw out a line, which Gordon looped around a smooth cleat embedded in the dock. He pulled the boat closer and then met Sam at the stern to take another line. Shane clattered down the ramp with the hand truck as Sam began off-loading crates. Judging from their animated gestures and the sound of raised voices that rose over the boat's engine, Shane wasn't appreciative of the way the crates were being carelessly tossed in his direction.

But Nate wasn't very interested in their banter. He was watching Simon, who seemed to move about as if he were on another plane of existence altogether. He was wearing a pair of trim board shorts dyed some indeterminate dark color. They weren't the oversized ones that most men favored and which, to Nate, were about as ridiculous as Speedo bikinis. Rather, they seemed to hug the older man's form in all the right places, but weren't tight enough to leave nothing to Nate's overactive imagination. Over those, Simon wore a faded T-shirt with some indistinguishable logo on it. From this distance he looked exactly as Nate remembered him. A pair of classic aviator sunglasses shielded Simon's eyes; Nate found himself longing to see them. He wondered, too, if the older man had noticed him sitting there, and that thought honed his senses to a fine edge, a feeling similar to the one he got before he hit the stage, when he could hear the crowd hush in anticipation of his arrival. A loud snuffling at his thigh captured Nate's attention, and he glanced down to see a pair of wide-set brown eyes gazing up at him. The dog laid its muzzle on Nate's thigh. He stiffened. It appeared docile enough, but Nate wasn't about to test his luck on that premise.

"Shoo!" he hissed, after a few seconds' worth of staring contest. This was all he needed--dog-drool stains on his pants. The creature merely twitched one of its long, silky-looking ears, and shifted its gaze, making its eyebrows roll. It was a handsome animal, and huge, with a dark stripe of fur defining its backbone.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, and the dog started, backing away from Nate. Muscles rippled under its sleek coat. A second blast brought Nate's attention to the source of the sound--he saw Simon move his hand away from his face--and the dog broke into a lope, heading back down the pier. Simon waved in his direction. Nate stared at him dumbly for a second before offering a friendly return, but Simon had already turned his attention to the younger men and was gesturing at the different crates that were being unloaded. He must have made a real good impression with that, Nate thought darkly. He drank down half his beer, barely registering the flavor. It was annoying, all of a sudden feeling like some _kid_. It was annoying, too, the way they all seemed to get on, like one big, happy family. Nate had grown up believing that's what bands were like; that had never been his experience in his group. Even so, he found it hard to take his eyes off Simon and the hypnotizing way his long braid swayed with every move.

The last thing to come off the boat before Simon came ashore was a huge cooler. By that time Shane and Chuck had already passed by with the hand-truck and its cargo, Shane indicating to Nate he'd be back soon with a refill. Gordon and Sam stood together on the pier, heads close, body language telegraphing intimacy. Nate felt a strange pang watching them, and the emptiness that always seemed poised at the edges of his consciousness threatened to engulf him. It wasn't as if he was a stranger to such things--he'd caught his guitarist, Corey, and bass player, Devon, in similar consultation countless times. How heart-warming _that_ always was to come upon. Nate had never understood that relationship. It seemed incestuous at best and a crying shame, considering the endless supply of willing groupies who paraded themselves before the band--just ripe for the picking.

Sam turned away to help Simon with the cooler but Gordon stayed him, laying his hand on a bare forearm. In the flash of an eye he stood up on his toes and kissed the blond on his cheek, then bounded off ahead without waiting for a reaction. Sam stood watching after him for a few seconds before he picked up one end of the cooler and hefted it up the ramp with Simon. The dog trailed obediently, then slipped ahead of them to find a shady spot under one of the tables. The emptiness settled in his stomach; Nate took a healthy gulp from his glass, finishing nearly half of it.

"I'll get the knives," Gordon called out as they arrived at the near end of pier. Sam left Simon there by a long work table that was pushed up against the back of the house, underneath an exhaust fan. They were now no more than fifteen feet away from Nate. The younger blond continued walking, right past Nate and into the restaurant, barely acknowledging him. He was a looker, sharp features and a body with nary an ounce of fat--a physique much like Simon's. There was a likeness there too, he realized. It occurred to Nate that Sam was probably Simon's kid. That was a disappointing thought.

He heard a ruckus coming from within the restaurant, and Gordon and Shane's voices clashed once again before Gordon appeared, carrying a leather satchel.

"Ya gonna let me try?"

"Now, Gordon," Simon began, then picked up the slump in the younger man's shoulders. "Yes, of course," he amended. Gordon was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he unrolled the leather; a brilliant reflection sparked off the array of knives contained within.

Simon looked even better up close, Nate decided. It was as if he'd stepped out of one of those photographs inside the restaurant; it didn't look like he was a day over thirty, even though Nate was certain he was pushing fifty. Simon flipped his sunglasses off his face and perched them on the top of his head.

He leaned over to open the lid of the cooler and, one by one, he pulled two large, round fish from a bed of ice and laid them out next to each other.

Nate watched, fascinated, as the older man deftly filleted one, carefully instructing Gordon in the technique. First he sliced off the dorsal fin, then made a deep gash behind the gill on each side. At each step he stopped and oversaw Gordon's effort, then picked up where he'd left off. He peeled the skin off his fish and rescued Gordon's, as the kid couldn't seem to get the knife just right--in between the layer of skin and muscle so as not to lose too much of the flesh. Next, he carved off the innards cleanly, exposing the ruby meat of the tuna's belly.

"This will make sushi tomorrow." He smiled as his hands gently coaxed that flesh from the lighter steak. He looked over at the mess Gordon had made, and nodded. "That'll be good for soup stock." Nate gave Simon credit for patience; it was quite a bit of ruined fish.

He drained his drink and wondered where that second beer was. The first had settled nicely, but it wasn't nearly enough. Sam reappeared through the doorway, his hair tousled and damp. He must have taken a shower, Nate figured. He was dressed in a pale madras short-sleeved button-down and denim cutoffs, along with an apron just like the one Gordon was wearing. Stuffed into his waistband at the back was an order-pad. He paused to light up, shaking out the match when he was done.

"Hey, can I bum one off you?"

Violet eyes met his, and Sam stared at Nate impassively for several seconds. He could feel hostility rolling off the younger man.

"There's a convenience store just down the road. I'm sure you could find something to your liking there."

"Maybe you'd consider taking a drink order, then," he replied icily.

"I'm not on duty until seven."

The kid had spunk, Nate allowed, but it wasn't getting him closer to any more nicotine, and he wasn't about to press his luck remaining incognito by waltzing into some corner store--his face was likely to be smiling back at him from the cover of some weekly tabloid or entertainment magazine. Besides, he thought stubbornly, he liked the view where he was.

"Do you have to be such a dick?" Shane asked as he appeared finally with a second beer. "I apologize for Princess's attitude, I should have warned ya." He smiled at Nate sincerely as he removed the empty and replaced it on the coaster with a fresh one.

"Actually, I think you did."

Sam glared at Shane, and the redhead did his best to ignore the withering look.

"If you want to give all your smokes away, it's your funeral. But don't come begging off of me later." Sam shrugged indifferently.

"You're such a selfish prick, you know that?"

"Whatever." Sam blew a thin stream of smoke into the air and gazed off in the distance, then sauntered to the rail at the edge of the deck and stared out over the water. Nate glanced over at Simon and Gordon; by now they'd removed all the meat from the carcasses and were almost done slicing the fish into steaks. Shane turned back to Nate and handed him a cigarette.

"Here ya go, man." Nate nodded his head in thanks, and then leaned forward to meet the flame when Shane offered him a light. "I--uh--have a confession to make."

Nate sighed and closed his eyes, savoring the tobacco. It wasn't his brand, but it would do for the moment. He tried pretending he hadn't heard the redhead, but he'd re-enacted this scene enough times to know how it would play out.

"Do I look like a bartender?" he asked sardonically.

"Yeah. Heh. I mean, no." Shane rubbed his hand self-consciously over the back of his head and combed out the loose strands between his fingers; Nate noticed he'd freed his hair from the bandana. "I just wanted ta let you know, your secret is safe here."

"My secret?"

"Yeah, I know who you are." Shane almost looked embarrassed at the confession. "It's not like anyone else here does, though," he added hurriedly. He shifted his gaze around the deck.

"That seems obvious," Nate snorted, giving a sidelong glance toward Sam's back. He glanced over to where Simon and Gordon had been cleaning the fish. Gordon had found a bucket filled with soapy water and was now disinfecting the worktable. The smell of ammonia wafted in the air, mixing with the earthy smell of the geraniums. Annoyance gripped Nate when his search failed to turn up Simon. He realized then that he'd missed Simon passing by with the cleaned tuna.

"My brother's in your band."

Nate snorted. Of all the coincidences possible, he'd stumbled into a little hole-in-the-wall where one of his bandmates' brothers worked. "He is," he replied sourly. The mystery brother couldn't be Corey, since Nate's drummer--Lucy--was Corey's half-sister, and neither of them had ever mentioned any other siblings. Not that Nate paid attention to those kinds of things. In fact, he was quite happy knowing very little of any of his band's personal lives. As long as they showed up to rehearsal, learned their parts and performed well, they could all be banging each other for all he cared. Which, for all he knew, they were--it certainly looked like their keyboardist, Yvette, wanted to bang both boys.

"Yeah, Devon."

Nate took another drag and gave Shane an appraising glance. He was handsome in his own right--drop-dead handsome if Nate were honest, the faint scars that webbed Shane's left cheek only added a rugged quality to his good looks. They certainly detracted nothing. He bet the redhead had an amazing body, too. He pictured the washboard abs he was sure were concealed by the thin ribbing of Shane's tank. A new hunger blossomed in Nate's belly. This one was more familiar and far more predatory.

"You don't look much like him," he sniffed. It was true. Devon was much taller than Shane and had a mane of close-cropped black hair.

"Well, you know, different mothers and all that. We aren't very close," the redhead volunteered.

"I see. And is who I am _why_ I'm drinking free tonight?"

"Nah, we have this kind of thing ... when some out-of-towner shows up. Southern hospitality." Shane flashed another one of his brilliant smiles. Nate bet he never had any trouble warming his bed.

"Mm. Just how far does that hospitality extend?" he asked, the inflection in the question giving it an entirely different meaning. He wondered if Simon Keating might share in that same ideology.

"Heh. Y'know, I'm flattered, but my boyfriend would have my nuts, and probably piss in your dinner to boot." So Shane and the cook were an item too; it figured he'd wandered into a gay establishment. He'd heard there was a sizable gay community in Key West.

"Uh huh," Nate pressed half-heartedly. He wasn't really interested in Shane or Chuck, for that matter, but any sex was better than no sex. "Well, you know what they say, the more the merrier."

"You have a death-wish, or something?" Shane asked, an edge in his voice.

"Or something."

Simon re-appeared in the doorway and flashed a smile in Nate's general direction. Nate tipped his chin in reply and then tracked him as he crossed the patio to where Sam was standing. He'd showered too, as evidenced by the darker color of his hair, and changed his clothes; now he was wearing a loose, faded Hawaiian shirt in a print of white hibiscus flowers grounded on muted olives and browns. The top two buttons were undone, which afforded Nate the view of a large shark's tooth hanging from a cord around Simon's neck. The board shorts had been replaced by cut-offs. Nate's eyes lingered over Simon's sinewy form, took in taut thighs and powerful calves that tapered to well-defined ankles. He was barefoot. Nate guessed the ubiquitous 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' plastered all over the island wasn't applicable here. As weren't a lot of conventions, it seemed.

As if he read Nate's mind, Shane made a low sound of appreciation. "He has no idea, either."

"Hm?" Nate questioned without turning his eyes away.

"I'd tap that seven ways from Sunday before I'd even look at his son's bony ass--"

"You mean Mister Personality?" Nate wasn't too surprised that Shane had confirmed Sam and Simon's relationship, but he could admit it was disappointing.

"--not that I'd have a chance in hell." Shane completed his statement, then gave a short laugh at Nate's assessment of Sam. "You should have seen him before he started getting laid regularly. Ol' Gordo has softened his Highness up."

"You're joking," Nate deadpanned.

"I kid you not. But he wouldn't have treated you any differently. His smokes are sacred." Shane continued to stare at the two figures. "Simon manages to keep him in line, too. And smooth any feathers he ruffles."

Nate nodded his head and watched the exchange between Simon and Sam. Everything about the younger man's attitude changed--softened--as Shane put it.   
A cool mist washed over him as the breeze picked up, buffeting the umbrellas. The thatch rattled in complaint. Gordon was hosing off the table where he and Simon had cleaned the fish, letting the water run clear and drain into the gravel of the parking lot.

With the fishy smell and ammonia dissipated, a panoply of scents assaulted Nate's nose--savory aromas laced with exotic spices. His stomach growled again. He did his best to ignore the hunger and sipped the fresh beer.

"So why do you sell yourself so short when it comes to Simon?" he asked. He probably knew the answer already, but it didn't hurt to make sure.

"Oh, well, number one: I have a boyfriend, and number two ... Simon's just ... Simon." Shane shrugged. "It's hard to explain. I think he just doesn't need anyone like that. He's got Sam--he's devoted to Sam. And Kato's good company." He nudged his chin in the dog's direction. "He's good protection, too. From all the 'gators."

As far as Nate could tell, the question of Simon's sexuality was still open-ended, but he wasn't currently attached. Nate shook his head. He hadn't even met the guy properly and yet he was already choosing curtains. He really did need a break from his life. Or some mindless sex. Or both.

"Is that why he stopped surfing?"

"No! It was the accident. He--"

"Shane?" Chuck's voice called out from behind the screen. "Can you help me with something?"

"Yeah, be right there. Sorry, man, got work to do," he said to Nate before he left. Nate had the distinct impression that Chuck had deliberately called the redhead away. But Shane had left him with food for thought.

Chuck appeared in the doorway. "Gordon, come eat before it gets busy. Then you need to finish up the blackboard." He turned to Nate. "The menu's not ready, but you're welcome to have what I've cooked up for the staff--seared tuna with saffron rice and gingered vegetables." Nate's mouth was already watering before Chuck had finished his recitation.

"That sounds good," he replied. Under normal circumstances, Nate would have liked to peruse the menu and choose something for himself, but this café was far from normal. He'd decided that a while ago. He drained his second drink and felt the urge to pee. "Where's the men's room?"

"The rest room is unisex. You passed it on the way out to the deck."

Nate followed Chuck back inside, Gordon on his heels. Chuck pointed to a doorway on the right as he made his way back to the kitchen. Now that he was standing, Nate could feel the effects of two pints on a completely empty stomach. Food would be just the thing to metabolize the alcohol quicker. The restroom was fairly large as public facilities went, especially as it contained no stall, just the toilet and a sink, and a corner cupboard on which a watering can filled with sunflowers had been placed. The walls were painted a deep forest green; the tiles and fixtures were similar shades of terracotta. The air smelled of eucalyptus, courtesy of a red-hued wreath of the stuff hanging on the wall next to the toilet.

He washed his hands and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His noticed his skin had taken on a rosy flush, courtesy of his afternoon drive under the sun. It made his complexion look healthy, certainly not that of a musician who slept during the day on tour buses, airplanes, and behind the tinted glass of limousines.

Stepping out of the bathroom, his eye was caught by the neon lights of a free-standing jukebox. Nate peered through the glass and browsed the selections, slowly flipping through the minicards. There was nothing advertised that could be remotely considered Top 40; it was a mix of relief and something altogether indescribable that none of his songs had made the cut. As if he should care about the playlist on a jukebox in some rinky-dink bar. Begrudgingly, though, he admitted that the choices were musically astute; he owned many of the very same recordings.

He glanced toward the dining area and noticed that there were a few patrons now seated at the bar that Shane was tending between eating bites of his dinner. A glance in the other direction showed the nearly blank chalkboard--no menu had been written--but the corners and sides had been decorated with drawings of floating steaks, chops and broccoli florets, fish swimming in curling waves and carrots magically being chopped. Gordon wasn't half-bad as an artist.

"Oh, hey, if you want some money for the jukebox, we have a roll of quarters here," Shane called across the bar when he caught Nate standing by the machine. Nate rolled his eyes. He wondered if Shane was always that solicitous, then thought that he probably had to be to make up for Sam's attitude.

He could afford to feed the jukebox. Hell, he could buy the place--several times over--with what amounted to chump change. He was nearing the end of the list when he came upon The Ventures' _Walk Don't Run_\--a classic surf album. Nate's first guitar had been a Ventures' model Mosrite, complete with the whammy bar, the one connection his music had to his childhood. One of the first songs he (and many others) had learned to play with any competence was the title track on that record. And he still had that guitar, still picked it up from time to time to write songs on it. He found a five dollar-bill in his wallet and fed it into the tray, then selected the entire album to play. As the title track began, he collected his change and walked back out to the deck.

When he got back to his table, it had been bused clean of his empty glass and cigarette pack. A basket of bread and a fresh pint had been left in their place, along with a glass of water. Evidently they didn't worry about drunk-driving laws here, either. Though, Nate had no plans of leaving anytime soon. For one thing, he'd just paid for roughly thirty minutes of music--music that sounded even better piped out in the open air of the deck. Nate lifted the napkin that covered the basket and picked out a dark brown roll. He split it open with his hands, then found a small crock of butter nestled in with the rest of the bread. He scooped some out with his knife, pleasantly surprised that the butter was softened. He wasn't reduced to scraping over the surface of a rock-hard slab. He chewed thoughtfully, reluctantly appreciating the attention to detail. He'd been to fine restaurants that skimped in that department.

Gordon and Sam were seated at a table near the rail, the brunet literally shoveling the food down his throat, and the blond eating as if he had all the time in the world to finish. A young couple with a kid of about five or six had been seated outside too. The woman kept scanning about nervously and shushing the complaining child, urging him to take a piece of chalk and draw on the tabletop; Nate understood the genius of the tables, then, and he reached for a piece of chalk. He'd never considered himself an artist, but at the same time, he wasn't bad at sketching. He drew a straight line perpendicular to himself and then roughed out the lower regions of the sailboat, idly wondering where Simon had gone off to as he began to fill in the island on the horizon behind the boat.

A bell rang from inside the building, and Gordon was out of his seat like a shot while Sam continued to eat his meal undisturbed. 'Pussy-whipped' didn't even begin to describe the kid's behavior. He didn't seem like a dope, though, so Nate assumed the blond was probably spectacular in bed. Nate smiled to himself, wondering if the axiom about the apple not falling far from the tree might be true in the case of Simon and Sam. That was a theory he'd be willing to test. And then test again.

Gordon returned not long after with a tray of drinks. He stopped at Nate's table.

"Hey, that's pretty good!" he exclaimed as he placed a platter in front of him.

"Everyone's an art critic," Nate snorted in reply. He returned the chalk to its glass.

"I didn't mean anything by it!" Gordon shifted from foot to foot. "An' critics never say anything nice."

"That's a rather astute judgment." The kid had more insight than Nate was comfortable with, but Gordon seemed unaware of it.

"I get critiqued all the time," he shrugged. "Ya get a thick skin after awhile."

Nate tried to hide his smirk. He knew enough about critics and thick skins to fill a book or two. "You do?"

"Yeah, from my professors before I finished school, art critics now, an' gallery owners."

Something clicked in Nate's head ... G. S. was Gordon. "Those paintings inside are yours?"

"Uh huh!" He smiled.

"They're good," Nate allowed after studying the kid for a few seconds. He'd almost thrown Gordon's words back at him, but thought the better of being petty.

"Thanks! Is there anything else ya need?" Gordon asked.

There was the problem of cigarettes, but the aroma of his meal was enough of a distraction for the time being. After, maybe he'd take a stroll to the convenience store, or just bum more off of Shane and his brand of Southern hospitality.

"I'm good for now."

Gordon turned to the other table and set down the drinks, along with two menus. Nate listened to the conversation between Gordon and the couple; it was soon obvious that they were regulars.

"Is Simon coming back?" the little boy asked.

"Of course he is! He wouldn't miss the sunset! It's gonna be a beaut tonight." The boy beamed at Gordon's reply.

"Now listen, Evan," his mother admonished, "Mr. Keating is busy--this is his restaurant, so he may not be able to take you beach-combing tonight."

"But he promised when we were here last week!"

"That's right, I did, and as soon as you finish your dinner, I will." Simon was standing in the doorway a plate in one hand, a glass in another. He placed the plate on the edge of Nate's table and reached into his shirt pocket. "But only if you clean your plate," he continued, before turning his attention to Nate. "I believe this is your brand?" he asked, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

Nate looked at them for a full second before nodding his head. Simon laid them down on the table next to his meal. Nate glanced up. Simon was wearing a smile. At close quarters, he was even handsomer, even with the crows-feet that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"You didn't have to do that!" he exclaimed, and then in the next breath asked, "How much do I owe you?"

Simon waved his hand. "It's nothing, really, I had to run out for something the bar needed. Though, perhaps you could repay me with the pleasure of your company?"

"That seems to be a fair price," Nate grinned pleasantly. He felt a warm glow suffuse his body. From the corner of his eye, he caught Sam giving him a sidelong glance, staring at him stone-faced, just a few milliseconds too long. Nate suppressed the sudden urge to stick out his tongue at him.

Now that Simon was seated at the table with him, though, Nate was at a loss for words, Gordon's observation rising unhelpfully to the surface of his mind. He was used to fending off fans and eating in alone peace--he'd become a master of The Look, the one that said 'don't fuck with me if you value your life.' And he'd never been good at small talk to begin with; it was a bothersome, inane trait. So they ate in silence for a while, The Ventures' music filling in the spaces, Nate wondering why Simon chose to sit with him and then not engage him in any of those common civilities--the weather, local sports--whatever it was that people 'bonded' over. He was halfway done with his meal before it registered just how good the food was. The tuna was the freshest he'd ever eaten and the subtle spices awakened his taste buds, making him eager for each successive bite.

Every once in a while Nate would steal a glance across the table at Simon, sometimes catching his gaze and contagious smile. Simon looked radiant--breathtakingly beautiful-- bathed in the warm rays of the late afternoon sun, which was dipping toward the horizon. After a while, though, the silence seemed oppressive and Nate felt compelled to say something.

"You know, when I was a kid, I was a huge fan of yours." As the words escaped him, Nate realized that he sounded like every fan who'd ever approached him.

"I get that a lot." Simon gave him a knowing grin, which only added to Nate's embarrassment.

"I didn't mean it that way!" he amended. "Until I'd walked into this place and saw that photo of you hanging on the wall, I'd forgotten all about you." That didn't sound much better, Nate realized belatedly.

"I see," Simon said between bites. "So what brings you to these parts?"

"How do you know I don't live around here?"

Simon chuckled. "I've lived around here long enough to know just about everyone. We don't get many strangers dropping by, unless they're looking for an autograph from me or my son." He nodded in Sam's direction.

"Maybe I'm new to the neighborhood."

"With a rental from Miami? No U-Haul with your belongings?"

"You got me there," Nate admitted, then changed the subject. "So, following in Dad's footsteps?"

"Hm. More like eclipsing his old man." Simon smiled indulgently. "He's far better than I could have dreamed of being." Nate thought about the accident Shane had alluded to.

"Well, you know, technology helps."

"You need the talent, too. All the technological advances in the world aren't going to keep you on the board if you don't have that."

"I'm sure personality plays a role."

Simon's smile faltered, and Nate immediately felt bad. It was a cheap shot; he knew that, and undeserved. Besides, if Simon knew him any better, or knew of his well-deserved reputation, he would be within his rights to introduce Nate to a kettle. But it annoyed him that Simon, Gordon and even Shane made excuses for Sam's behavior, even though Nate knew he had no say in the dynamics in their little world. But that didn't mean he didn't want one.

Simon pushed his plate away. "I'm well aware of Sam's shortcomings," he said carefully.

"It's none of my business."

"Probably not," Simon agreed. "He had a rough childhood. We didn't even know each other existed until ..." his voice trailed off uncertainly, and it was all Nate could do not to prod him, to pry him for whatever tantalizing secret he was holding onto.

Nate's own childhood had been unremarkable. He was the only child of two intellectuals--college professors--from a young age indoctrinated into free thought and less-than-stellar morals. Though not by his current standards. A little pot-smoking and an open marriage were quaint in comparison.

"Until he'd nearly lost me." Simon was gazing out over the open water, and Nate wondered if he was reliving his accident. "Oh!" Simon exclaimed suddenly. "If you'll excuse me, I have a date--a promise that I made." He stood with a fluid grace and took a couple of steps away, then turned back to Nate. "Thank you for indulging me."

"It was my pleasure," Nate replied. He felt a strange longing come over him as he watched Simon approach the other table, where Gordon was clearing their plates.

Simon lifted the little boy out of his seat and hoisted him onto his shoulders to the accompaniment of delighted squeals. "You two deserve a little peace; I'll have him back as soon as the sun has set."

The place was getting crowded. Gordon and Sam were kept busy between taking orders and drinks back and forth. Nate snagged Sam on one of his return trips.

"Since you're on duty now, do you think you could fetch me a drink?"

"What do you want?" Sam's eyes simmered with resentment.

"Something strong that doesn't taste like it."

Sam scowled at him, pen poised over his pad. "Could you be more specific?"

"Anything other than a Long Island Iced Tea--use your imagination. And could you clear the table?"

Sam shoved the pad back in his waistband. For a minute Nate thought that he would just walk away, but then, reluctantly, he cleared the dirty dishes, bringing them over to the busing station. He came back with a rag and wiped the table down, taking Nate's chalk drawing with it. The kid's moxie was admirable, if more than a little annoying.

Simon and the boy were walking along the beach with the dog zig-zagging across their path, and the sun, now a bright flame of orange, sank lower in the sky, flattening against the horizon before falling into the sea. The sky at dusk was awash with color, orange fading to pinks into purples, and finally to aqua. It was relaxing to sit and watch the sun inch lower and follow Simon's silhouette as they picked their way over the sand, returning to the tables when the sun disappeared completely.

Sam came back with a tray of drinks, stopping at Nate's table with it balanced easily on his hip. He dropped a paper napkin in front of Nate and then set down a tall glass with a paper umbrella and a straw protruding from it.

"What's my poison?"

"A Zombie."

Nate eyed the drink suspiciously. "What's in it?"

"Three kinds of rum, amaretto, triple sec and two mixers." Nate took a cautious sip from the straw and barely tasted a hint of alcohol. He cracked open the pack of cigarettes, slid one out and lit up. "Is there anything else you need?" Sam asked. The drink glasses on the tray chinked together as he shifted his weight.

"Yeah, another one of these next pass." Nate replied.

"It's your party," Sam retorted, moving off to finish distributing his load.

The drink didn't feel strong, not until Nate was nearly finished with it and stood to visit the restroom again. It was a little hard finding his feet, and the deck slanted a way from him for a split second before he found his balance. When he returned to his table a fresh drink awaited him, along with Simon.

"Back for more witty repartee?" Nate asked, his mood becoming practically buoyant when he alighted on the other man.

"I was enjoying the company, yes."

The admission disarmed Nate. He wondered if Simon felt the same ... chemistry that he was experiencing, and decided that the honesty deserved reciprocation.

"As was I," he acknowledged, then took a good, long sip of his drink. "So I found this place purely by chance. I was looking for someplace quiet. The Old Town made my skin crawl."

"I don't even think the cemetery is quiet in the Old Town," Simon laughed. "And you're glad you did?"

Nate held Simon's cryptic gaze, trying to decipher what he was getting at.

"Yeah, I am." He sipped his new drink through the straw. "And these make me very happy I did."

Simon's mouth widened to a grin. "Those are quite potent."

"Deceptively so. You have no idea who I am?" Apparently they loosened tongues too.

Simon knitted his brow. "Should I?"

Nate's chuckle soon became a full belly laugh. He laughed until tears threatened. It was too perfect, the tables so completely turned. It was exactly what he'd been looking for. And yet, he wanted Simon to know who he was, because Nate didn't think it would matter.

"Maybe I should start by introducing myself. Nate Jackson." He held out his hand and Simon shook it. Simon's grip was firm but not over-powering.

"Simon Keating. Pleased to meet you, Nate Jackson." There was no flicker of recognition when he repeated Nate's name.

For the first time, despite the anonymity he'd been craving, Nate told someone the truth about how he made his living. Much as he expected, it changed nothing in the way Simon treated him. They talked, it seemed, for hours, until the sky blackened and Gordon came round to light the torches around the perimeter of the deck and candles on the tables. Nate told Simon things he'd never shared with anyone, and Simon opened up, too.

He told Nate about the accident, which turned out not to have been an accident at all but a shark attack during an exhibition show off of the Cape of Good Hope, ten years earlier. The waves around the cape were particularly treacherous, even in the best weather, but there'd been a wind that day that had created a wicked riptide. Many of the surfers had wiped out early on and had packed it in for the day. Simon was still going strong at sunset when the wind had died down, and the waves were sublime. The attack happened out of the blue--no fins had even been spotted. He'd been tumbled by a wave, and when he surfaced, Simon felt a pressure at his hip and a drag as he tried to climb back onto his board. It wasn't until the second bite that he realized he was being attacked, and at that point all hell broke loose--whistles blowing, people screaming--but none of it registered on him, locked in mortal battle as he was. Somehow, though, he managed to wedge his surfboard into the creature's jaws, and he began to swim for shore. It was a laborious task--he could only kick with one leg and was losing a lot of blood, the water was cold and he was fast becoming numb. He wasn't sure he would have survived the swim if it hadn't been for a dog that, for some reason beyond Simon's understanding, swam out and hauled him back in. He'd held onto that animal for dear life, and was later told that his hands had to be pried from the dog's collar after he'd lost consciousness.

The temperature of the water was probably the other thing that saved Simon--as his body went into shock, the cold slowed down all his vital functions. Still, his injuries were grave; he spent several weeks recuperating in the hospital. When he came to from a medically induced coma, his lawyer was there, with news that he'd been named father to a thirteen year-old boy. Later, as he recovered, a fellow surfer dropped by with a souvenir. When his board had washed ashore, a shark's tooth--the one he wore around his neck--was embedded in it. Nate listened, completely absorbed in Simon's tale and, for the first time since he didn't know how long, feeling a sense of unabashed wonder.

"So you quit surfing?" he asked finally, when Simon had finished speaking.

"Actually, it was more like surfing quit me. Something changed in the musculature, or maybe it was the scar tissue, but I couldn't find the right balance after that."

"Do you miss it?"

"Well, I doubt I'd be surfing anymore at my age; it's a young man's sport, you know. But I did miss it for a time. So I taught Sam. Don't you think you'd miss the life if you just walked away?"

"I don't know," Nate answered honestly. "But something has to change. I thought this was what I wanted, but it's so ... empty."

"It isn't an easy life," Simon agreed. "After a while you forget who your friends are because everyone wants something from you, it seems."

They were alone on the deck, Nate realized. He pushed his glass away (his third Zombie) and realized that the tables and chairs were spinning lazily around. He'd succeeded in getting drunk.

"Where is everyone?"

"Oh, the boys are inside dancing, I'm sure. We're getting ready to close. Then they're going out to a nightclub." Simon's dog walked over to their table and lay down at his feet. "Oh! And Kato is a descendent of the dog that saved me!" he chuckled. "Rhodesian Ridgeback--lion hunters. Brave animals, they are."

Nate looked down at the creature. In his inebriated state, he wondered what it would be like to have such a loyal, fearless companion, then brought his gaze back to Simon.

"Is it late?" he slurred.

"No, not really by bar standards, but we usually don't stay open past eleven. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"Mm? My car, I guess."

"Nonsense," Simon replied.

"With you?"

Simon laughed. "Rather forward, aren't we?"

Over Simon's shoulder, Sam appeared in the doorway. Nate saw that he'd changed from his casual attire into something more appropriate for clubbing: an open-throated white button-down and a pair of form-fitting black jeans. He thought the outfit was as uptight as the blond, though.

"We're going to lock up. Are you okay?" He directed his attention at Simon only, ignoring Nate's presence.

"I'm fine to shut everything down."

Sam lingered in the doorway.

"Go! Have fun! I'll see you tomorrow."

"C'mon Sam, they're waiting for us," Gordon appeared behind him. "G'night Simon, G'night ..." The pleasantry hung in the air uncertainly.

"Nate."

"G'night Nate!" Gordon tugged on Sam's arm.

Sam left reluctantly, and it was suddenly quiet; Nate realized that the music had stopped. They were completely alone, except for Kato. Gordon had put out all the candles except the one on their table, along with the torches, but the moon was bright in the sky--bright enough to cast shadows around them.

"Do you think you've found what you were looking for?" Simon asked.

"Well, I _was_ looking to get drunk."

"I imagine you've succeeded at that on a grand scale."

Nate was feeling a connectedness that he'd never felt before; over the course of the evening he'd shared his most secret thoughts with Simon and had listened to the story of an extraordinary life. But there was one thing he hadn't said. Nate reached across the table and covered Simon's hand with his own.

"I want you."

Simon laughed uncomfortably. "Ah, I see."

"I'm making a complete fool of myself."

"It comes with the territory."

"Territory?"

"Of getting drunk. Everything looks better viewed through the bottom of a beer bottle."

"Hm. No. I wanted you before I got drunk." Not that that changed anything. "I just thought something happened here tonight. We connected." He rubbed the back of Simon's hand with his thumb, encouraged that Simon didn't pull away. At the same time, Nate felt like some hormone-fueled teenager.

"I need to piss," he said, standing. The ground lurched away from him, and he found himself solidly in Simon's arms. He snuggled his face against the crook of Simon's neck and breathed deeply, his nose filling with citrus, spice and a hint of salt air.

"Easy there," Simon murmured. Nate felt strong arms steadying him. "Let me help you, and then we'll see about getting you home."

"I don't have a home." His voice was muffled against the material of Simon's collar.

"Everyone has a home," Simon soothed. His hand slid under Nate's jacket and caressed his back. Nate was feeling drunker by the second. He raised his chin, landing a sloppy kiss on Simon's lips. Simon tightened the embrace, and Nate felt an alien heart beat against his chest.

"You aren't playing fair," Simon chided.

"'M not playing." Simon's hold loosened and he guided them both to the hallway. "What the hell was in those things?" Nate asked as Simon helped him to the bathroom.

"The Zombies you were drinking? Sam didn't tell you? It's three types of rum with a shot of 151 floating on top, so it's the last thing you drink through the straw. By then you don't taste the alcohol."

Nate didn't want to calculate how much alcohol he'd consumed, nor did he think he'd be able to. He was still aware of his name, though, that was a plus. And Simon's, too. And how good it felt to have someone taking care of him.

"Can you make it on your own?" Simon asked when they'd reached the restroom. Nate held onto the door handle and nodded. "Okay, I'm going to make sure everything's secure, then we can get going."

Nate grinned. He was still smiling when he finished and opened the door. He didn't know how long he'd been in there, but Simon was waiting with a life vest.

"What's that?"

"A li--"

"I mean, why do I need that?"

"Because I'm taking you for a sail. I don't live here, I live across the bay."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Nate poked an arm through one hole and Simon came around him, waiting for his second arm.

"Living across the bay? Only if there's a hurricane." He cinched the waist so the vest was snug against Nate's body.

"No, sailing at night."

"Oh! There's plenty of moonlight, and the boat has running lights."

"We can't drive? I'll give you my--"

"No, there aren't any roads to get to the island."

"Island?" It was all becoming very confusing.

"Yes," Simon explained patiently, locking the back door behind them. "I live on my own little island. It's more just a spit of sand and a mangrove forest, but it's all mine."

"A private island," Nate giggled. "Is it called Fantasy Island?"

Simon shook his head and laughed.

The harsh glow of a security light now illuminated the deck. They walked out onto the pier, Simon's arm around Nate's waist, holding him steady, Kato padding behind them.

"Now who's being forward?" Nate asked.

"Hm? I don't want you to fall off the pier."

"You're too kind," Nate deadpanned, but inside, he was still inordinately giddy. He slid his hand over Simon's ass.

"Ah, ah, ah," Simon admonished.

Nate grabbed the firm flesh. "God! You're fucking beautiful," he exclaimed. "Perfect!"

Simon only chuckled, but it registered that he wasn't removing Nate's wandering hand.

The tide had come in, so the ramp leading to the floating dock was pitched at a much gentler slope than when Simon had brought the boat in. The water was still as well, so Nate had little trouble boarding, Simon guiding him, and Kato jumping on when they were clear. Simon led Nate to a seat and motioned for him to sit down. After he did, Simon pulled straps around him, securing him in the seat.

"Kinky," Nate remarked. "Will the wonders never cease?" He felt a flush of desire as he tested the restraints.

"It will be a wonder if I can get you across without you falling overboard."

"I'm not that drunk!" Nate insisted.

"Then you shouldn't mind a little insurance." Lips brushed against his forehead.

Simon left him then and started the boat's engine. Next he turned on all the running lights, then jumped back onto the dock to disengage the boat. He coiled the ropes over his shoulder and jumped back in, dropping the lines onto the deck in their neat formation, before he took the ship's wheel. Simon was pure grace in motion, sure-footed and agile; it was impossible to imagine he'd been so near death at one time. Nate felt a vibration shudder through the boat, then the wind at his back as the boat reversed out of the slip.

He must have dozed during the crossing because the next thing he knew, Simon was gently shaking him awake. The bindings that had held him in his seat were already loosened, and Simon was working on his life vest. The boat rocked gently as Simon moved.

There wasn't much to see as they walked across the pier toward a house that glowed warmly from the shore, their path illuminated by solar lights on posts, but beyond it stretched an abyss that the moonlight wasn't able to penetrate. Nate held on tightly to Simon's hand. Tree frogs and crickets sounded in the still air.

The house was little more than a roof on posts. Mosquito netting served as its outside walls, though as they came up a set of rough-hewn wood stairs, Nate saw that glass and wooden shutters were accordioned at each corner. The inside was beautiful and spare--so much so that it managed to break through the alcohol-fueled fog that shrouded his mind--furnished tastefully in dark-stained wooden furniture with gold and sage accents. Wide-board floors were covered with plush throw rugs, the living room, kitchen and bedroom flowed around a central chimney, a stone fireplace in the round. A ladder led to a small loft above the living room. Simon brought Nate to the couch and sat him down, then crouched before him. He lifted one foot and eased off Nate's shoe and sock, then did the same for his other foot. Nate's fingers traced over Simon's cheek, then he slid them down the opening of his shirt. Simon gently stopped Nate's hand and removed it from his body.

"You aren't going to sleep with me tonight, are you?" Nate asked. Simon met his gaze.

"Is that what you want?"

Nate thought about it. He wanted Simon, but he didn't want to cheapen the moment. He shook his head, and the room swam around him. "I don't know," he said finally.

Simon took Nate's head between his hands. "Then why don't we revisit that in the morning?"

Nate closed his eyes and concentrated on the light touch, on the heat radiating from Simon's skin, the rough texture of it. He knew he should have felt completely deflated; he was being turned down--no one turned down Nate Jackson!--but at the same time, he could see Simon's point.

And he couldn't deny he was tired. Dead tired.

"Okay."

"Let's get you to bed before you fall asleep on the couch." Simon coaxed Nate to standing position, and he felt himself being undressed--stripped to his boxer-briefs--before Simon eased him into his bed.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Nate mumbled as he felt his consciousness slipping away. He fell into the soft cocoon of bed sheets and feather pillows that enveloped him.

"I don't doubt that," Simon chuckled.

 

Nate awakened to an excruciating hangover and classical music filtering through the pain. The piece was familiar, and Nate focused on the arrangement of the instruments and the notes to try to ignore the throbbing at his temples, determining it was something from Bach's _Musical Offering_\--probably Webern's arrangement, judging by the clarity. He squinted his eyes against the bright daylight and groaned, dropping his head back on the pillow.

The movement caused waves of nausea coursing through his body. As soon as they ebbed, though, he sat up gingerly, placing his feet on the floor. Next to him, the bed was unsurprisingly empty, but it did look slept in. Simon _had_ slept with him, just not biblically. Somehow his glasses had made it to the nightstand, and Nate was grateful for that--stumbling about hung-over and blind was not remotely attractive.

He found Simon in the living area, sitting on the rug in a half-lotus, his back perfectly straight and his eyes closed. He was wearing a pair of loose pants and was topless, but what caught Nate's attention was the tattoo. It was of a serpentine creature--a dragon, he guessed--wending its way around Simon's torso and underneath his waistband. It was a large-scale piece, executed with a delicate touch--not contained by a black outline; rather, the tones and edges of the image just faded into Simon's skin.

"Good morning."

Nate started at the greeting and averted his eyes quickly.

"Morning. May I use your bathroom?"

"Through the beaded curtain."

Nate barely took note of the room. He only calculated that it was way too bright out as he washed up, then rinsed his mouth out by cupping his hand under the faucet. When he returned to the bed, a tall glass of iced water and two pain-killers sat on the nightstand. He took them gratefully, and then drank the entire glass of water. He crawled back into bed, leaving his glasses on the table.

"You know what else is good for a hangover?" Nate opened one eye and watched Simon stretch out next to him.

"No, what?"

"Sex."

Nate blinked several times, then propped his head on his hand. He wasn't about to let this possibility slip by, headache or no.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Why would I do that?"

Nate eyed Simon for several seconds, trying to figure out if he was serious. Then he laughed. "To get into my pants?"

"Oh, there are better ways to do that."

"Really? Show me." Nate rolled onto his back, the room tilted briefly then righted itself.

Simon rolled with him and his hand ghosted over Nate's cheek reverently, the light touch sending a shiver along Nate's spine. Simon smelled good--that familiar, subtle mix of spices with a hint of brine from the sea air--and the loose hair that framed his face was soft against Nate's skin. Every brush of his lips against Nate's body--every kiss--both scalded and soothed his skin, while fanning the flames of his desire. By the time Simon had blazed a path down Nate's flat stomach to the waistband of his under-shorts, they were tented over his erection.

"Okay, I'll give you that," he hissed as cool air caressed his heated skin, and then his sex was surrounded by a magnificent heat as Simon took him into his mouth. "Oh, yeah ..." He groaned appreciatively and was rewarded by an increasing pressure as he was swallowed further. "Fuck." Nate fisted the sheets and then thrust his hips up into the amazing warmth, the friction and scrape of Simon's tongue and teeth bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Simon tortured him slowly, doing everything possible, it seemed, to draw Nate's pleasure out. His hands clutched and released the bed linens, only to grip them anew with each lick, nibble and suck.

Simon backed off the pressure, leaving Nate suspended by a slender thread, awash in desire. He felt like he was being stretched to his limit, that he would just die if Simon shifted his focus even minutely.

"Please," he begged.

Simon took him in to the root, and then Nate was coming, feeling Simon's throat muscles constrict around his length as he finished him off. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes that had ticked by, but at that moment, Nate believed with all his heart he'd just experienced the best ten minutes of his life.

"Turn over."

Nate did so wordlessly, his body still trembling from his release. He expected to feel a prod at his entrance, an invasion--he anticipated that tiny sense of violation before the pleasure of making love took over. He heard Simon fiddling with something in his hands and the sound of a liquid jostling against the walls of its container, then the scent of something sweet permeated the air. Simon's weight shifted and the mattress dipped under Nate's hips as Simon planted his knees on either side of them and sat on the backs of Nate's thighs. But instead of the breach, the thought of which had Nate tensing and wondering if he could back out, a thin, cool line of fluid was dribbled down the middle of his back, and then Simon's hands were working over shoulders, inching down, thumbs pressing on either side of his spine.

"Oh, God, that feels good!" he whispered. He felt boneless and sated, sure that if Simon kept it up, he'd melt right into the bed. Euphoria washed over him and, with it, a sense of extraordinary peace. He concentrated on the movements of Simon's hands, rubbing in concentric circles, radiating outward from his spine. Nate closed his eyes and drifted to sleep under the spell of Simon's massage.

When he awakened again it was to the repetitive sounds of _thwock! bouncebouncebounce_ accompanied by canine toenails clicking hurriedly along wooden planks. Nate stretched luxuriously on the soft cotton sheets. The day was warm and the sun was shining brightly out beyond the mosquito-netting walls. A breeze whispered through the open rooms, though, keeping the temperature quite comfortable, and a ceiling fan churned lazily above his head. Nate felt like he'd been dropped off in paradise; he was already regretting having to leave Simon's company. He thought about his iPhone, still switched off in his coat pocket--he'd turned it off before getting into the car yesterday--and wondered how many voicemail messages he had, then pushed aside the malaise he was feeling. His life would be waiting for him whenever got back to the mainland, filled with an endless parade of hands in his pockets and tedious contractual obligations.

Or maybe Simon would just decide to keep him there. The thought brought a smile to his face as he considered what it would be like to be kept. Endless days and nights of drinking, eating well, watching the sun dip below the Gulf and fucking--loads of fucking--didn't seem such a bad idea. The alternative--returning to Los Angeles, to his mansion in Malibu with the killer panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean from the bluffs above beach--paled in comparison. Then he imagined Simon there, and a pleasant warmth blossomed in his body. Simon's presence in Los Angeles would puzzle just about everyone Nate knew. He could imagine the stunned faces when they were out on the town. The _paparazzi_'s photos of him and his mystery gentleman that would end up plastered across all the gossip pages. He frowned at that image; then again, he'd want to keep Simon all to himself, untouched by the celebrity scene.

Nate climbed out of the bed and grabbed his trousers, then thought the better of them. He decided a quick shower to freshen up was in order. He barely remembered the bathroom from earlier that morning, but now he took a minute to look around. It was open like much of the rest of the house, although a wall made of industrial glass blocks shielded the toilet from view and served as a divider for the shower. A huge tub--one that could easily accommodate two--was inset in a mosaic base of copper-metallic-flecked, earth-toned tiles, which also served as the floor of the room. It was a strange way to live, he thought, but the island itself offered immense privacy. He took a relaxing shower, thoroughly enjoying Simon's choice of shampoo and soap, which were both some kind of citrus and patchouli confection. The black label on the bottle declared it to be 'Karma.' It smelled like Simon had when he'd lain beside him--when they'd fooled around--like his sheets still did, and Nate found the scent to be a reassuring balm. He didn't have to leave right away.

There was a large dresser backed against the couch, and he found a pair of crimson silk sleep pants in the top drawer and pulled them on; he didn't think Simon would mind. He padded to the kitchen area in search of caffeine, the peaceful stillness of the island a soothing balm punctured only by the sounds that had awakened him. Through the netting he saw that Simon was seated outside in a rocking loveseat at the foot of the dock, his back to the house, playing fetch with Kato.

Simon had been right about the sex; Nate's hangover was gone. In its place, though, was a craving for more of Simon, one that he'd have to try his luck on. It wasn't good form to fall asleep on one's lover, and Nate was embarrassed that he'd done it.

_Lover._

The word carried a weight--a profound seriousness--in his mind. He'd had so many before Simon, but had never called any one of them by that term.

There was coffee already brewed, a full pot warming on the stove.

"Hey," he called out. "How do you take your coffee?"

Simon turned his head, gifting Nate with his elegant profile. "Just a bit of milk," he replied, then lobbed the ball again without missing a beat.

Nate rummaged the freestanding cupboard in the kitchen for two mugs and then got the milk from the sparely laden refrigerator. It contained mostly condiments, stocked much like he was sure the one at his house was.

He poured the coffee and made his way out to Simon. In the daylight, the island was even more idyllic than he'd imagined. A small yard had been cleared of tropical undergrowth for a lawn of scrubby grass fringed by palm trees, mangroves and wild flowers. Honeysuckle vines draped some of the foliage, their flowers perfuming the air. A rope hammock stretched in the empty space between two smaller palms, their broad, fronded leaves forming a shaded canopy. Garden beds against the house had been planted in neat rows--more than likely with some of the very herbs that enhanced the food Chuck cooked in the restaurant.

Simon looked resplendent sitting there, the sun refracting a rainbow of color in the hair that haloed his head. He was wearing another faded tee shirt, the design nearly peeled off, and another pair of board shorts. Nate swallowed hard, his mind helpfully supplying him with the thought of how those powerful legs would feel snugged around his waist, gripping him tight. He imagined Simon splayed out on the hammock, naked and inviting.

"Here you go." He leaned over the back of the swing and handed over one mug of coffee. A bowl of oranges sat next to Simon, and he picked it up and settled it on his lap.

"Come. Sit down." He patted the weathered wood next to him. Nate obliged and took a sip of the coffee. Unsurprisingly, it was very good.

"You know, you should be careful who you bring home. I could have killed you last night."

Simon turned his head, a smile gracing his features. "You would have done much better to plot that out at the restaurant. You'd be stuck here now."

"Maybe I wouldn't mind that."

Simon nodded his head. "But the police would find your car in the lot and start making some inquiries. It wouldn't be long before some nosy-body ventured over to the island."

"I suppose you're right."

"Then again, maybe it's you who's made a mistake. I've absconded with you to my secluded lair. The alligators in the salt marshes would take care of the body within a few short minutes."

The hair tingled at the back of Nate's neck. "You've given this some thought."

"And you haven't? Besides, you had your chance after the boys went off to dance. When we were alone at the restaurant. Once we were on the boat, I had you at my mercy." Nate considered that. He barely remembered the ride across, though he did remember the harness restraint vividly. How it had turned him on. That same intense arousal was rapidly surging in him again.

"Would you kill me, then? Please?"

Simon laughed heartily. "I much prefer you alive and well." He took another sip of his coffee. "How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Hm? Much better. Your hangover remedy worked like a charm."

The ghost of a smile flirted over Simon's lips before Kato dropped the ball into his lap. Simon tossed it again, continuing the game he'd been playing with the dog. Kato bounded off, the planks of the dock creaking and groaning as he chased the ball, catching up with it before it rolled into the azure water.

"Would you like an orange? I picked them earlier. There's a tree growing wild nearby."

"Sounds heavenly. But I could think of something better," Nate ventured. Simon didn't ask him what that was, and a silence fell between them, the only sounds the bounce of the ball and the clatter of Kato's toenails. Added to that was the sensation of the loveseat gently swinging in counterpoint to each toss. Nate drained his cup and placed it on the ground beside the chair.

"What would that be?" Simon asked finally, after Kato had given up on the game and ambled back toward the house. The sound of him lapping up water from his bowl, along with the whine of a power boat's engine, filtered through the air around them. The sailboat--_Rabbit in the Moon_, Nate saw from the name stenciled on an orange-and-white striped life-saver hung on the cabin wall--creaked in its moorings from the wake of the craft that motored by.

Nate swung his arm around Simon's shoulders and pulled himself closer. He felt the length of Simon's thigh pressing against his leg.

"You," he whispered against Simon's ear. He laid a chaste kiss at Simon's temple.

"If that's the case, you really should eat something; you need your strength, you know."

Nate snorted. "I assure you, I'm in it for the long haul."

"So you say _now_." Simon's hand brushed along the top of Nate's thigh, stopping just short of his groin. Nate shivered and brought his lips against Simon's neck, just below his ear.

"You could keep me here," he whispered against Simon's skin.

"You'd be bored to tears, in short order." Cool fingers slid into the crease at the top of his thigh. Nate nibbled on the lobe of Simon's ear and was rewarded with a sharp exhale. The hand in his lap slid over the firm ridge of his erection.

"Try me," Nate murmured after letting go of Simon's earlobe. He reached for the hem of Simon's tee and pulled the shirt up, baring his toned belly. Nate glanced down to see part of the sinewy dragon tattoo he'd thought he'd dreamed earlier--it was still there, an ethereal etching of blacks, greys, and whites. Simon leaned forward and slid the bowl of fruit along the ground to underneath their seat, along with his coffee cup. Then he sat back again, giving Nate free rein over his body. Simon's skin underneath the tattoo was warm to the touch; Nate felt Simon shudder beneath his fingertips as he traced the ridges of the scars the dragon obscured. He imagined what it must have been like, being bitten that way. Simon was so _alive_, Nate thought, and he was so grateful for that.

"Hm. I thought it was you who wanted to try me?" Simon asked slyly.

And damned sexy. Dizzyingly so.

"I'd like to make it up to you." He slid his hand up Simon's torso and his fingers played over taut nipples, eliciting another tight gasp. Nate liked the heady power that surged through him from the knowledge his touches were having such an effect on Simon; he could see himself fast becoming addicted to it.

"Make what up?" Simon asked. The question sounded casual enough, but the way the sensitive flesh puckered underneath his finger pads told Nate a different story. One he liked even better.

"Falling asleep on you earlier. That's never happened before."

"Oh, I'm so rusty at all this, I thought I might have _put_ you to sleep," Simon replied. Nate couldn't decide if he were serious or not--not that it mattered; he was intent on proving how bored he wasn't. He slid his hand lower again, over the hard bulge at Simon's crotch. Simon moaned softly, his head dropping back and neck arching. Then he reached for Nate's glasses and removed them, folding them and placing them carefully on the arm of the chair.

Simon turned slightly and reclined, wedging his back into the corner of the seat. Nate leaned forward and kissed him. Almost immediately, he felt a deep hunger for more of Simon's taste. His tongue demanded entrance into Simon's wicked mouth, and Simon acquiesced. He was intoxicating. Nate pressed against his pliant body, his desire only spiraling upward when Simon's hands lightly traced aimless shapes over his back. One hand came to a rest at the nape of Nate's neck, and he felt a gentle tug on his hair, the insistent pull tipping his head, breaking the kiss. Simon trailed lips and tongue over Nate's throat; his other hand wormed under the elastic of the sleep pants to cup Nate's ass. Nate groaned, a shiver wracking his body. Simon was making him feel things in a way he'd never imagined. Nate wanted to drown in his arms.

He pulled away and slipped off the chair, standing a bit unsteadily. He wanted to take Simon so badly, but not there, not where they were exposed to anyone who might pass by the bay they were facing. This, _this_ was something to be savored in private--this should be his alone. He held out his hand and Simon took it. When he stood, Simon stepped into his awaiting arms, pressing his body the length of Nate's. He felt Simon's erection jut against him.

"If that's the case, I suggest some practice is in order," he managed, his voice barely a whisper.

He grabbed his glasses and put them on, then led Simon to the hammock and motioned him to sit down. "Wait here," he ordered.

Nate practically ran back into the house. He remembered that Simon had used some kind of lubricant earlier, and he found a small bottle of almond oil on the floor by the bed. He slid it into a pocket.

When he returned, Simon was there as he'd left him, swinging back and forth, pushing the hammock with his toes, bending and flexing his knees. Nate ran his fingers through the loose strands of silvery-blond that framed Simon's face. The hair slipped through them soft as silk, and he reached for the long braid, rolling off the elastic that held it together. Simon tilted his head up and Nate leaned down to meet him. The brush of their lips was electrifying and, though Nate sought to be more relaxed, he soon found himself eagerly pressing his tongue into Simon's tantalizing heat, his body pushing forward, and Simon's responding by reclining further, until he was supporting himself on his elbows. Nate's fingers worked feverishly on Simon's braid, loosening it and then combing out the wavy strands; Simon's hair was still damp in parts from the shower he'd taken the day before. Then he reached for the hem of Simon's shirt again. Simon shrugged out of it and laid back, his fingers curling over the edge of the hammock, anchored on either side of his thighs. Nate took a deep breath as his eyes roved over Simon's body. He didn't care about the scars hidden underneath the alluring tattoo; Simon's beauty transcended his physical body. He ghosted his hand over Simon's crotch, then reached for the waistband of his shorts with both hands, easily pulling apart the Velcro tab that held it closed. Simon's cock sprang from the parted material and, with his help, Nate slipped the garment off his hips and removed it, tossing it on top of the discarded tee shirt.

He wanted to commit Simon's every nuance, every inflection to memory. Nate took the oil out of his pocket and pulled the sleep pants down, then stepped out of them. He touched Simon's knees, nudging them apart, and poured a liberal amount of the lubricant over his hands. He wanted to make sure he didn't hurt Simon.

Simon was different.

Nate didn't know why, though. He only knew that was a fact beyond dispute. His finger circled Simon's opening and gently coaxed the muscles to relax, lightly teasing the puckered skin before sliding in and out. Simon hissed at the intrusion; the knuckles of his fingers, which still gripped the lip of the hammock, turned white.

"It'll get better," Nate promised. He traced his other hand reverently down the center of Simon's chest, his fingerpads sliding over the shark's tooth. He felt Simon's heart pounding beneath his ribs.

"It's already quite good."

By the time Simon wrapped his legs around his waist, Nate was close to coming. He slid inside Simon until he was buried to the hilt, pulled back, then snapped his hips, the jolt drawing groans from them both. The hammock swung away and Nate grabbed it, his fingers curling through the webbing. He made love to Simon slowly, delighting in the sensation of weightlessness, the way Simon's back arched with each drive and his thighs squeezed Nate's sides, holding him fast. Simon's hair fanned out beneath him, some slipping over the far end of the hammock, and some loose wisps sliding over his chest and puffing into the air with each movement. Nate wanted to bury his face in the silky stuff, breathe in the smell of Simon's shampoo, taste the skin at the nape of his neck.

He let go of the hammock with one hand and wrapped it around Simon's hot, hard length and began to jack him off in long, languid strokes. He watched Simon's face for signs of his pleasure, watched the rise and fall of his chest. Nate felt Simon's dick grow thicker, felt the pulse of pre-cum, and then the heat of Simon's spend on the back of his hand as he came.

"Oh!" Simon whispered, and his eyelids fluttered shut. His muscles contracted around Nate's dick, leaving him breathless from the incredible tightness and the tantalizing friction, drawing his climax slowly out of him.

He lost control then, anchoring his hands to Simon's hips and driving into him with such force that when he was done, the hammock was nearly perpendicular to the ground, Simon's weight and gravity itself forcing Nate even deeper inside. The pressure against his pelvis caused waves of pleasure to wrack his body. If he hadn't been anchored to Simon like that, Nate thought for sure he would lose his footing.

Simon wrapped his arms around Nate's neck and his mouth found Nate's. He crushed their lips together, pushing Nate's glasses off his nose. The kiss continued uninterrupted as Nate slowly brought the hammock down to its resting position and climbed into it with Simon. They stretched out side-by-side. Nate adjusted his glasses, as the fog on the lenses evaporated, and he stared up at the cloudless azure sky.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

Simon only laughed.

 

Simon laughed, too, the second, third and fourth time Nate asked.

By the sixth time, Nate gave up and learned to be satisfied with what he had. Which was substantial. Simon continued to be amazing; in him Nate found some semblance of peace, a stilling of the demons that had driven him as long as he could remember.

They met several times during the summer and fall, and Nate managed to coerce Simon out to Malibu for the holidays. Sam was surfing in Hawaii, Gordon in tow, and Nate cajoled Simon to fly in for a stopover through the New Year on his way back to Key West after watching Sam compete.

It bothered Nate that he had to share Simon with his grown son, but he bit his tongue, even when Simon crashed on Christmas Eve. Nate had never seen him so worn out. He held his disappointment at bay until the next morning over a light breakfast.

"You know, he's not a kid anymore. You can let him go."

He expected Simon to argue with him; Sam was the one subject that had remained taboo, with Simon shutting down any and all of Nate's commentary on the father-and-son relationship.

"He's got Gordon now," he added, upping the ante. Nate knew he was being petty, but he was spoiling for a fight. Simon still looked tired after his rest, but his healthy complexion had returned.

Simon merely sipped his coffee in silent contemplation. He was wearing one of Nate's robes, an indigo affair that set off his fair hair.

Simon regarded him, a serious expression etched on his face. "He tells me the same thing, all the time."

Nate was surprised by the admission. He'd always assumed it was Sam holding fast to Simon--Sam resenting _his_ intrusion on the little tight-knit group of two--that had been the reason for Simon's behavior, for his obstinate refusal to take Nate's proposals seriously.

"He does." Nate's body vibrated with an unfamiliar apprehension; things were getting interesting. He took a sip of his coffee and stared out the window at the ocean, watching the waves crash against the shoreline. The morning sky was overcast as storm clouds roiled over a steel-blue Pacific. Simon would want to walk along the beach later, combing it for whatever treasures the waves left on the sand.

It had been a good year, all in all, Nate reflected. Simon had proven to be an incredible muse; he'd written some of his best material since they'd gotten together, and even the critics who'd regularly panned his songwriting and guitar-playing as lazy and uninspired, had fallen all over themselves when he and the band had introduced some of the new songs at live shows. Their next record, due out after the January doldrums, was poised to be his most successful effort yet, and the band had gelled with him like never before.

Simon still had that strange look on his face. It was beginning to unnerve Nate.

"Ask me again."

"Huh?" Nate searched his brain, wondering if, in his daydreaming, he'd asked something of Simon and completely forgotten it.

"Ask me again, Nate. I won't laugh this time."

Nate felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. The blood rushed from his face.

"Really?"

Simon nodded his head.

"Wait right here."

Nate rushed back to their bedroom, feeling every bit a kid on Christmas morning. He looked around the room at the rumpled bed, the sense strong in him--nearly overwhelming him--that everything in his life was about to change. Again. The way it had changed that day he'd met Simon.

They hadn't exchanged gifts yet; Simon was of the mind that New Year's was the right day for that, and Nate hadn't been opposed to humoring him. But he did have something besides the gift he'd settled on for their exchange.

He found what he was looking for buried in his sock drawer. He'd bought the thing in London when he'd stopped there on tour; he'd told himself it was a lark, just a trinket, but after all Simon's refusals, he'd found himself unable to give it to him. But now ... now was the right time.

Simon was where he'd left him, a bemused smile on his face. Nate approached him, the only sound the soft _swish_ of the fabric of his lounge pants. He was wearing a pair of silk pajamas--extravagant things since he normally slept in his under-shorts or in the buff, but the prior night, their reunion had been decidedly chilly, at least for him. Simon had been oblivious, in bed and asleep within the hour after his plane had landed. He'd not so much as given Nate's house a second look.

Nate knelt in front of him, resting his elbows on Simon's knees.

"Simon Keating," he began. "Will you marry me?"

Simon only stared at him for a few long seconds, but his smile grew wider.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Nate closed his eyes and smiled. He slid his arms around Simon's waist until he was holding him in a tight embrace, head pressed against Simon's chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was an awkward position, but Nate didn't care--he wasn't given to sentimental displays--but this time it felt right.

He blamed what he was about to do on the stupid holiday, on being stuck on tour in Great Britain and missing Key West. When he let go of Simon, it was only to reach into his pocket and pull out a gold-leafed egg. Simon took the fragile object and eyed Nate questioningly.

"You have to break it open." Nate tapped his fingers on the glass tabletop.

Simon smacked the plaster egg on the beveled edge, and Nate put his hand out to catch the object that had been contained within. He reached for Simon's left hand and slipped on a ring.

It was a sleek, modern affair, two thick platinum bands with a band of ancient oak sandwiched between--an artifact from when the Romans had settled Londinium. It fit perfectly, and looked even better on Simon's hand. The ring was practical, too; its low profile wouldn't interfere with Simon's sailing. It had been Gordon who'd managed to get Nate Simon's ring size. The kid had never questioned him about why he'd wanted it, either, and Nate had never asked Gordon how he'd obtained it.

Simon leaned forward and gave Nate a lingering kiss; by the time he pulled away, Nate was completely aroused and his lenses were fogged. He inhaled a shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of what had transpired.

"Why now?" he asked, when he could trust himself to speak again.

"I was a fool to say 'no' the first time. Never mind the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth." Simon shook his head and studied the ring. "Were you a Boy Scout?"

"I was shopping in London, and when I saw it, I knew it was for you." Nate shrugged self-consciously. He was mortified by how sappy that sounded.

Simon traced his fingers along the side of Nate's face. He brushed aside the comment and continued. "I didn't want you to be saddled with me. I thought I was doing you a favor. You're a rock star, after all!"

"I hadn't noticed," Nate snorted.

"I know what temptations there are when you're famous," Simon explained patiently. Nate knew what Simon was getting at; he'd told him early on in their relationship about the indiscretion that had resulted in Sam, though he'd been quick to add that he'd never once regretted becoming a father.

"And ... I thought I was happy before I met you. I'd been perfectly content to live my life out on my little island, sail about, hang out at the café and just be Sam's father. Fly around the world with him when he competed. You ruined all that, you know." Simon shook his head again, but he was smiling broadly.

Nate didn't know what to say. At first he'd been annoyed that Simon had doubted his intentions, but now he realized it was something else entirely: Simon had been frightened.

He said the first thing that popped into his head. "I'm glad."

"So am I."

 

The ceremony was held on February 23rd at Nate's house, on a deck overlooking the beach. Simon wore a white suit with a black shirt and white tie, Nate the opposite combination. Sam stood in as Best Man. The service was simple, secular and sparsely attended by just the band, along with Gordon, Shane and Chuck--and the requisite helicopters hovering overhead, containing a gaggle of tabloid photographers vying for their money shots. Simon was unperturbed and undistracted by the noise and wind; his focus remained steadfastly in the moment--on the ceremony, and on Nate--and under Simon's steady gaze, Nate was able to forget about the desperate media frenzy above them. No one else seemed bothered by it either, nor when the kiss sealing their vows blossomed into an affair that threatened to be longer than the ceremony itself.

As the party was winding down, Nate reflected on the preparations that had led up to the day. At first, he'd had no idea what to do about a wedding, and Simon had been no help in that regard. In the end, Nate had let the girls in the band--Yvette and Lucy--handle all the arrangements. He was impressed by what they'd done; he hadn't expected their enthusiasm for planning all the minutia of the event. They'd come to rehearsals with books and magazines as if they were planning their own weddings. It had been amusing, and now, standing in his house, filled for once with laughter, Nate couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more fulfilled. At least, not one time that didn't include his guitar slung over his shoulder and a mic stand in front of him.

"You seem so far away," Simon observed.

They were standing on the balcony that overlooked the open plan of the first floor of his house, gazing down at the revelers below. Everyone had paired off, and were slow-dancing in front of the huge stone fireplace that dominated the room. They were bathed in the warm light of the flames.

"Hm, no, I'm right here with you." Nate slipped his hand into Simon's and looked down at the ring on his finger. It was a perfect complement to Simon's--two platinum bands, but with teak instead of oak, sandwiched between them. But where the ring he'd given Simon was three straight, perfectly symmetrical bands, Nate's ring was fashioned in a wave pattern--an echo of the sea that Simon loved.

Nate knew their immediate future wasn't going to be easy; for now, as they'd been, they'd spend more time apart than together. But he was okay with that, because in Simon, he'd found someone to return to--and a place to call home.

\--END--


End file.
